


It Breaks Us New

by merildis



Series: Atlas [2]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Confessions, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Mission Fic, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slight Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-01-27 10:31:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merildis/pseuds/merildis
Summary: Three weeks, two cars, one body, and a whole lot of changes.(Post-Tanker. Philanthropy looks for a body and finds each other.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this piece comes directly after [chapter 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10185725/chapters/22675004) of The Courage of Stars, but can _technically_ stand alone. the title and quote were taken from Woodwork by Sleeping at Last. i've been working on this piece for a while i but haven't actually gotten around to posting it until now lol hope y'all enjoy!

_It’s a cruel, cruel trick_

_How we find ourselves_

_When we lose everything else_

_Like a train wreck_

_The sound of your breathing hits my ears_

_The world reappears_

_And it breaks us new_

–

 

Getting out of New York is, predictably, a bitch. Hal hates city driving – he’s always hated city driving, avoided it for the most part until now – and so the entire situation is more nerve-wracking than it has any right to be as he’s cutting down back alleys and service roads, all the while listening to the distant sounds of sirens, helicopters over the Hudson. David refuses painkillers and fights exhaustion, doesn't talk much but the tension is palpable, electric current in the air.

They do, eventually, make it out and start heading west. They’re both quiet, for the most part. Hal keeps a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel while Dave finally lets himself nod off in the passenger seat. They’re silent even as the suburbs give way to the emptiness one comes to expect after spending two years driving across the United States, trees and hills and only a handful of other cars on the highway.

The quiet gives Hal time to think. His first thought is the tanker; the lights in the distance, the way the metal seemed to turn and twist as the water pulled it under, creaking and groaning under its own weight. His next thought is David; he looks at him in the passenger seat now, head leaning against the window, but all he can see is him lying face down in the water, floating among the bodies of Marines and Russian soldiers, the sight so familiar that even now it turns Hal’s stomach and sets his hands shaking. Hal knows it’s a dangerous line of thinking; knows better than anyone how easily he can fall under, how if he’s not careful he’ll be back on that tiny boat on the water, back on his hands and knees in the grass next to his family’s pool.

David stirs beside him and it breaks Hal out of his mind for a moment. He watches him closely until he settles again; he’s seemed stable enough since Hal pulled him from the icy water, but it's still a little touch-and-go, every movement or noise putting Hal into high alert. He doesn't wake, though, just shifts in his seat a little; Hal is left as alone with his thoughts as he was before. He figures he’ll be alone for quite a few hours yet. By Hal’s best estimate, it’s about a day’s drive from New York to the little slice of Nowhere, Montana they’re headed to, where Nastasha found them an abandoned ranch house that should, in theory, have a well and a working generator. He’ll let Dave get a few hours of whatever fitful sleep he can manage for now.  

They're well past the state line when Hal finally lets himself think about the kiss. There’s heat rising in his cheeks again at the thought of it, but a slithering uncertainty settling in his stomach. He can still feel Dave’s clammy fingers on the back of his neck, on his cheek; can still feel his lips on his own, cold and rough and tentative. He glances over and David is still asleep, mouth open. Hal breathes out slowly, tries to dispel the butterflies fluttering away in his stomach, the fear and excitement all rolled into one heavy ball. Part of him wants to talk to Dave about it because, yeah, okay, kissing your roommate-slash-partner-slash-fellow-international-criminal is kind of a big step to take in their relationship and implies a whole lot of other things that could change… well, everything.

But the rest of him is just nervous. He doesn’t know what this means, really – not for himself, not for them, not for the future of Philanthropy. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t nice, the idea of being… together, but the mission comes first. The mission always has to come first. Hal knows Dave knows that, too.

So, they’re stuck at an impasse: put aside feelings (that may or may not exist – Hal still can’t know if David kissed him because he meant it or if he kissed him because he was concussed and bleeding out and not quite thinking, and it’s not like Dave is awake to ask) in favor of the good of the world, or risk jeopardizing the operation they’ve spent two years putting together for the sake of what very well may be an ill-fated relationship. Hal decides maybe five-thirty A.M. when he’s going on twenty-four hours without sleep may not be the best time to think about it.

The drive is smooth, for the most part. No police cars come chasing after them, at least. They’re a little east of Chicago when David wakes up for more than a few minutes, finally, and rubs his eyes in the early morning light. “Hal?”

“Yeah?” Hal jumps a little, whips his head around to look at him.

“Where are we?” His voice is still thick with sleep, despite the fact that he doesn't look rested at all. He stretches as much as he can in the cramped front seat and glances at the neon numbers glaring out at him from the dash. 7:27. Well, he slept more than expected, at least.

Hal purses his lips as he merges into the passing lane. “Near Chicago, I think. I was gonna avoid the main part of the city.” He glances over again, still looking as harried as he did before Dave passed out in the passenger seat. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” Dave stretches again, brushing Hal’s shoulder in the process. “Could probably sleep for another week.” The brief touch sends sparks across Hal's skin.

Hal barks out a nervous laugh. “Me too,” he says, turning his eyes back to the highway. Not that it makes much difference – he managed to get them trapped in the morning rush hour traffic, and as such their old van is sitting practically motionless. “Better than before, at least?”

Dave flicks on the radio, the chipper voices of the morning hosts prattling on a weather forecast neither of them really care about. “Better than floating in the Hudson,” he says between changing channels. Hal kind of winces at the statement and David realizes that maybe jokes about him almost drowning might not be in good taste quite yet. “Sorry.” He pops open the glove box as a distraction. “What have I missed?”

Distantly, another car trapped in the same deadlock they are honks. “I haven't been able to keep up with the news much,” Hal says, “but I’ve talked to Mei Ling and Nastasha. They’re pinning the whole thing on Philanthropy. You, mostly.” Hal speaks too quick, gesturing wildly with one hand. “They’re keeping the existence of RAY under wraps. Obviously. But your name is already in the news. I’d guess they're trying to smoke us out, I mean, it makes sense, with you being the hero of Shadow Moses and all.” Hal pauses to take a breath, finally, and looks back over at David.

Dave just shrugs, hums. “Makes sense.”

Hal is still hyped up on adrenaline and reaching that point in his sleep deprivation where it’s easier to keep talking than not, so he continues, “It gives the government a chance to get us out of the picture _and_ try to win the people back over after the whole genome soldier… incident. I’m sure some people in power weren’t exactly happy with what we’ve been doing. What _you’ve_ been doing.”

The car inches forward. David shifts, winces when he turns and remembers the cut along his ribs. “Right. Hm. So, Ocelot gets RAY and we get thrown under the bus so the government can save face.”

“Right,” Hal is still speaking in quick, clipped sentences, “We might be able to distract with the RAY photos but—“ Another distant horn, the sound of squealing brakes somewhere behind them. Hal deflates. “I don’t know.”

“We’ll figure it out,” says Dave after a beat. He leans forward and starts rummaging through the glovebox idly. Hal arcs an eyebrow. “Nothing good on the radio,” Dave grunts by way of explanation; it only takes a moment for him to unearth their copy of Fleetwood Mac’s _Rumors_ from under the pile of fake IDs and paperwork Hal has stuffed into the glovebox and pop it in. That brings back some semblance of normalcy, and by the time Go Your Own Way comes on, they’re both a little more relaxed.

Hal does manage to maneuver his way to the next exit eventually, and soon they’re parked outside a small gas station in some Chicago suburb. It’s a newer place, the tile floor still shiny and the windows not yet showing signs of having been plastered with layers upon layers of flyers and posters and ads. Hal walks in alone, the hood of his jacket pulled up onto his head and his hands in his pockets as he browses the rather impressive array of snacks. He isn’t really listening to the radio playing behind the counter until he hears it: “The man in the photo from the ship has been identified as the war hero Solid Snake—“

His blood goes cold in his veins. It makes sense, of course – he knows the attack has been all over the news, but hearing it himself is jarring, makes the whole thing feel more real. He feels like every set of eyes in the building are suddenly on him, despite the fact that he isn’t even the one they have pictures of, his heart racing. He barely makes eye contact with the young cashier as he checks out, only barely remembers to (begrudgingly) ask for the pack of Lucky Strikes Dave implored him to buy before he hurries out of the store, jacket pulled tight against the icy autumn wind and the imagined piercing stares.

Dave is leaning against the car when he reaches him, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he remarks, shoving his hand into his pocket. The color has mostly returned to his face, and the bandage on his forehead is barely visible through the fringe of dark hair. He must have gone digging in the trunk while Hal was inside; he’s wearing the old beat up leather jacket he refuses to part with now, and combined with his messy hair and casual stance he reminds Hal of something out of some action movie.

“They have a picture from the tanker,” Hal keeps his voice down despite the fact that the closest car in the lot is yards away. He offers Dave the pack of cigarettes and he takes it gratefully, produces his lighter from his jacket pocket and lights one before he speaks.

“Mm,” Dave takes a long drag on his cigarette, savors it for just a moment before breathing out a thin grey stream of smoke, “must have been the CYPHER. We’ll have to be careful.”

“Yeah,” Hal reaches for the passenger side door, “Mei Ling and Nastasha were right, it’s all over the news.”

"Not surprising.” David nods, but they both know it isn't quite safe to talk about things in the open. Instead, he slides into the driver’s seat and Hal swings himself into the passenger seat. “So, Nastasha found us a place to stay in Montana?”  Dave asks as the van roars to life and he eases onto the quiet street. Hal knows his patterns: he’ll stay on surface streets, take a few random turns to make sure they’re not being trailed before he gets back on the highway. It’s a familiar enough routine by now.

“Oh, you were awake for that?” Hal twists the cap off his bottle of soda and roots through the bag of snacks. He’s still too tense to be hungry, really, but he half-heartedly opens a bag of chips anyway.

“Caught bits and pieces,” David says. He’s got the window rolled down, cigarette in hand. “Can you navigate?” He tilts his head toward the map laying on the dash and reaches forward to hit play on the CD player again. Hal retrieves the map and settles back into his seat, watches Dave take a sip of his bitter convenience store coffee. There’s a siren in the distance and Hal stiffens and twists around to look out the rear window, but the road behind them is empty. He exhales, deflates back into his seat. They’ve been on the run from the law before, but it’s going to be a lot harder to get by when David’s face is plastered on every newspaper and television screen in the country.

It's almost strange, how normal the rest of the drive is after the commotion of the tanker. They trade off driving and sleeping, listening to the radio when they're both awake and listening to the low hum of the engine when they're not. They stop long enough for Hal to hijack a wifi signal and leak the pictures, but he was right in his earlier assumption; they barely make a dent in the round-the-clock coverage of the accident, only garnering real interest on a few conspiracy theory websites.

The time passes quickly, until paved roads turn into gravel, and gravel gives way to dirt, and soon Dave is pulling into the driveway of a small ranch house with boarded up windows and a broken lock on the front door.

Dave won't let Hal come in until he's cleared every room. Hal feels this twinge of fear watching Dave disappear alone into the front door with his pistol and flashlight in hand - it's been difficult letting him out of his sight since the tanker, afraid that he'll slip away somehow like water through his fingers. He fidgets with the zipper on his hoodie until Dave reappears in the doorway, illuminated by the headlights, and waves him in.

It's a mess inside; broken glass and dust, old rickety furniture left to rot, moth-eaten curtains barely hanging from the windows. “Well,” Hal says after a moment’s observation, “it’s better than my apartment in college.”

They get to work making the place livable. They don’t intend to stay more than a few days, but a safehouse with water and electricity in the middle of nowhere is a valuable asset. They don’t talk much, but they don’t really need to; Hal gets to work clearing a space for them to sleep in the old bedroom, shoving the rusted steel bedframe out of the way and spreading their sleeping bags out over the floor, while Dave tackles getting the generator working out back. The move onto their next tasks just as easily, brushing past each other in the hollowed-out shell of a kitchen.

It's a perfect chance for Hal to ask David about the kiss, with him fully awake and aware, when they've both had time to think it over and are currently alone in the abandoned house.

He doesn't.

Well, he almost does, lets the words linger of the very tip of his tongue, turns the question over in his head, but something changes Hal’s mind. Fear, maybe, of breaking the strange new peace that’s settled between them, somehow so different and so similar to before.

Or maybe he’s just nervous. Wouldn't be the first time.

Regardless, they manage to get the generator up and running, and Hal cleans most of the dirt from the furniture left in the living room until it looks almost homey. Dave drapes a ratty old thrift store blanket retrieved from the backseat of their van over the couch and Hal dusts off the rickety coffee table, and the place goes from looking entirely abandoned to only _mostly_ abandoned. A decent victory, all things considered.

Finally, after a bit of fiddling, Hal manages to get the television on and turn it to the local news station. It’s only a little bit of a surprise when they see Dave’s face staring back at them from the fuzzy screen. “Well, it’s not my most flattering photo, is it?”

Hal elbows him in the side. “Dave, this is serious. What are we gonna do?” The TV drones on, the picture of Dave interspersed with images of the destruction. It’s strange, seeing these distant helicopter photos of the debris when Hal was there, saw the lights of the ship sinking beneath the water, heard Dave’s codec go silent as the water overtook him, when he knows the memories of the deep metallic groan beneath them and Dave’s lifeless body in his arms will haunt his dreams. The newscasters are so matter-of-fact about it, stating that the incident seems to have been deliberate sabotage of the vessel on Snake’s part. It was a perfect trap: lay the bait for Hal and get him to send in Dave so they can frame him for the whole thing. And, of course, the two of them played into it perfectly. Hal feels sick.

Things get more interesting when they state that they’ve yet to find the suspect, or a body. “They think you might be dead,” Hal says, his eyes glued to the screen.

“I should be dead.”

“Well, what if you were?”

“What.” Dave gives him a flat look.

Hal leans in conspiratorially. “There’s a body out there with your exact genetic sequence.”

Dave’s eyebrows knit together. “Liquid?”

“Why not? We can bury the body nearby and tip off the media that it’s you. We won’t be able to find him quick enough to plant him in the river, but I’m sure we can find a way to convince them someone recovered your body and buried it in secret. They've run crazier stories.”

“That… may actually work.”

As it turns out, Mei Ling is very good at finding information. An hour after Hal’s called her, she has a lead: she’s almost positive Liquid is being held in a cold storage facility owned by some private company. It’s not much – she can’t even tell them which facility it might be, and the company owns dozens – but it’s a start. It’s easier to pretend everything is alright when Hal is pouring over maps and data again, easier to run from the image in his mind of David floating lifeless in the water, easier to make himself forget the things he doesn’t want to remember. He starts putting together a tentative game plan, and time slips away. Dave moves around him like he’s become part of the furniture; at some point there’s another blanket around Hal’s shoulders, but he doesn’t remember seeing Dave go out to the car _or_ come back. He’s finally roused from his fixation by Dave making a bit _too_ much noise as he plops onto the couch, and finds that it’s been four hours.

“So,” Dave asks. “Where are we headed?”

Hal looks up at him and grins. “California."


	2. Chapter 2

Most of Montana looks pretty much the same. They’re fairly close to the Idaho border now, maybe another hour or so out, but Dave’s seen nothing but empty, brown plains and distant hills since they started driving on nearly the other side of the state. They left the ranch house late in the evening, late enough to avoid traffic, and since Hal fell asleep a little outside Billings, he’s had only the open emptiness and the starry sky to keep him company. It’ll be another day’s worth of driving at _least_ to reach Sacramento, and who knows how much more after that to find Liquid’s body. It’s a little comforting, though, now that driving long hours has become so familiar to both of them; makes New York seem like a bad dream, except for the bandage still stretched across Dave’s ribs.

David shifts, tries to stretch his arms and hisses when it hurts more than expected, glances at Hal to make sure he didn’t wake him and relaxes when he’s still quietly snoring, curled beneath his coffee-stained hoodie. Dave turns his eyes back to the road -- a long, straight expanse of empty highway and wide Midwest skies – and tries to ignore the gnawing uncertainty in his gut. Everything is _different_ between them, new and a little frightening. The scary part is that he _wants_ this. Dave never intended to be here, always meant to put the mission first, ignored his own personal feelings so long that he could almost forget.

Nearly dying changes things.

Hal isn’t ready for… whatever this is. Dave knows that. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to _try._

The glowing red numbers on the dash read 4:27 when David finally decides to wake Hal up; he leans over to shake his shoulder, other hand still on the wheel. “Hal,” he stage-whispers, “Hal, come on.”

Bleary-eyed, Hal looks up at him. “What?” His glasses are askew after sleeping with them on, his hair flattened on one side by the window he rested his head on. He blinks slowly to clear the sleep from his eyes.

“You hungry?”

As it turns out, two unkempt men in crumpled clothes and nondescript hoodies is far from the strangest thing this waitress has seen wander into her diner at 4:45 A.M. Dave’s face has already found its way off the front page of all the newspapers strewn across the tables, replaced with some story or another. Regardless, he hopes his steadily-growing beard makes him a little harder to recognize. He rubs his hand over it idly as he and Hal slide into their booth and Hal snorts. “Not used to it?”

“Not anymore." Dave yawns and scans the menu. There are a few other people in the diner, mostly truckers sitting alone with coffee and newspapers, making it quiet save the low drone of the radio.

Hal is hunched over the menu, studying it as closely as if it were a new bit of information or a particularly good episode of one of the myriad anime he watches in his spare time, but he takes a moment to tear his eyes away and look up at Dave, instead. “You had a beard before?”

“Mmhmm.” Dave is too amused by the way Hal studies his menu to bother looking at his own. “When I first lived in Alaska I had a full-blown mountain man beard. Didn't really suit me, though.” He folds the menu closed and slides it to the edge of the table before leaning back and stretching.

“Well,” Hal glances up again, “you look good.”

A sly grin spreads across Dave’s face. “Oh? Do I?”

It seems to take Hal a moment to register the casually flirtatious tone, and Dave can practically watch the realization wash over his sleepy face. “I meant with the beard,” He corrects, almost-but-not-quite flushing pink. Dave watches Hal’s reaction closely, wants to know if he’s pulling away or moving closer, wants to know how far they can go before it's too far.

He doesn't get a chance to test the limits again before the waitress is tapping her pen expectantly on her notebook. Dave is careful to avoid eye contact when he orders to minimize risk of being recognized, just flashes her a toothy grin and hands her both his and Hal’s menus before pretending to be absorbed in the newspaper in front of him. His disarming (if awkward) charm seems to be enough; she smiles at them both a little brighter than before as she pours their coffee without a second thought. As soon as she retreats, Dave shoots Hal a look. “A burger? Really?”

Hal sips at the fresh cup of coffee the waitress deposited in front of him and makes a face before reaching for the creamer and sugar at the other end of the table. “What? I don't really like breakfast food.”

It’s Dave’s turn to make a face as Hal pours no less than three tiny cups of creamer into his mug. “Nothing? None at all?”

“Eh, cereal is alright I guess?”

“Bacon?”

“Not really.”

“Eggs?”

“Ew. No.”

“ _Waffles?_ At least tell me you'll eat waffles.”

“Don’t like the texture.”

David rolls his eyes. “Forget Philanthropy,” he says with a sip of his coffee, “I have a new mission in life: get you to eat some good food for once.”

 “Come on, Dave, it's not that bad!” Hal is still stirring sugar into his cup, his free hand coming up to comb back through his hair idly.

“I swear, I will _at least_ get you to like waffles. I’ve been told I make amazing waffles.” Dave is a little more proud of that than he should be, all things considered.

The moment the waitress drops their plates off, Dave starts digging into his breakfast. It falls quiet between the two of them for a while, Hal picking at his fries and inspecting the contents of his burger while Dave wolfs down his biscuits and practically inhales his coffee, too bitter even for his taste but he doesn't really care when it's been so long since he had anything but shitty, watered-down instant coffee from a convenience store or a McDonald’s drive through. Hal pokes and prods at his food for a while before finally deciding it’s fit for consumption.

It’s kinda funny, how the realization that Hal is sort of beautiful hits Dave all at once; one second he’s sipping his coffee, the next he’s enthralled by the way Hal’s hair is falling into his face, looking more ashy than brown under the buzzing fluorescent lights. He’s not _attractive,_ not by most standards, and yet there’s something about his gaunt face and pointed nose, about the patchy stubble on his chin and the dark circles under grey-blue eyes that has somehow gone from ordinary (if a bit nerdy) to beautiful in Dave’s eyes, as if he’s been looking at Hal for two years without seeing him. Dave doesn’t exactly know _what_ to do with this sudden realization, so instead he sits, staring.

If Hal notices the way David’s looking at him, he doesn’t show it. “You know,” Hal says, swallowing a bite of his 5 a.m. burger, “I don’t know how you manage to drink your coffee black like that.” He says with another sip of his own coffee. “Oh, can you pass me the salt?”

Their fingers linger for just a moment when Dave hands it to him, a gentle, casual, charged touch. Dave shrugs to break the moment. “I don’t know how _you_ manage to drink that crap loaded with cream and sugar.”

“At least it isn’t bitter,” Hal scoffs.

“Matches my sparkling personality.”

Hal snorts. “Can't argue with you there.” He sets the salt shaker back on the table when he’s done adding a little too much (in Dave’s opinion) to his fries, and slides it across to David before the quiet falls between them again. The world outside their booth keeps turning, local news on the radio, a few smatterings of chatter here and there as the waitress takes orders and makes small talk with the handful of other patrons. Life on the run, in Dave’s experience, has turned the world into two categories: us, and them. The world outside their little bubble, outside their cars and diner booths and safehouses, outside Philanthropy, they aren’t really a part of it now. It isn’t _theirs._ It’s strange, existing outside of the world you’re fighting to save.

Then again, Dave’s always been on the outside, hasn’t he?

He and Hal really do have more in common than it seems.

Carefully, _carefully_ , Dave reaches for Hal’s free hand on the tabletop and laces their fingers together. It’s a small, simple gesture. It doesn’t mean anything if they don’t want it to. (Dave wants it to so badly he surprises himself. Wants _Hal_ so badly he surprises himself.)

Hal looks up. Dave raises an eyebrow. They both glance at their joined hands.

Hal pulls back abruptly and Dave sits up straight, pulls his hand away and is halfway through an apology when Hal is sheepishly reaching for him with his other hand instead. “No, just… it's hard to eat if you're holding that one.” Hal stumbles over his words, Dave fumbles in his eagerness to twine their fingers back together, and they both laugh when their eyes meet.

 _Well,_ Dave thinks, _it’s a start._

Hal eats his burger and fries with one hand and Dave listens idly to the radio, both of them trying very hard to pretend this is the most normal thing they've ever done. In some weird sense, maybe it is. “You like strawberry milkshakes or chocolate more?” Dave asks as he reaches across the table to snag a fry from Hal’s plate, chews it thoughtfully while he waits for a response.

Hal wipes his mouth on the back of his hand after he puts down his coffee cup, his other hand still held loosely in Dave’s grip. “I’m more of a vanilla guy, myself.”

Dave snorts. “As if.”

“Wh- _hey_!” Hal scowls at him, flicks an empty sugar packet at him across the table.

David grins, nonchalant as ever, and leans back a little in the booth. “Am I wrong?”

Hal looks as if he’s about to protest, but the words die on his tongue. Dave smirks. Hal changes the subject. “Why’re you asking, anyway?”

 Dave shrugs. “Thought you might wanna share one?”

“I didn’t know we were in _Grease_ ,” Hal tries to snap back, but his cheeks turn just a _little_ pink and he turns his head, coughs into his elbow to hide the blush, but he doesn't protest, really, and Dave dares to squeeze his hand a little tighter. Hal squeezes back.

The waitress, for her part, seems good-naturedly skeptical when Dave flags her down to order. She cocks her head to the side and raises an eyebrow. “You want two straws with that, too?”

Dave grins wide, meets her eyes for a half-second. “Yes, ma’am.”

She returns his grin, not a single glimmer of recognition in her eyes even when Dave looks her dead on, just light teasing as she turns on her heel. “I’ll have that right out for you two lovebirds.”

Dave sees Hal flush deeper at her words, but she’s gone before he can even start to protest. David lets his thumb trace circles across the back of Hal’s hand, slow, careful, watching for any bit of trepidation in Hal’s eyes but finding nothing but nervous acceptance. A newspaper rustles a few tables away; someone on the other side of the diner changes the radio from local news to sports; Hal sighs, quietly, and flits his eyes between Dave and their hands resting on the tabletop. Dave steals another french fry. Everything settles into place outside their little bubble of tangled fingers and careful glances, even as everything within seems brand new.

The waitress winks when she slides the glass between them, and finally, reluctantly, Dave lets go of Hal’s hand and reaches for the glass instead. “Oh, come on,” Hal rolls his eyes when Dave plucks the cherry off the top and holds it out to him with an inviting waggle of his eyebrows.

“What?” Dave shrugs. “Never liked cherries much.”

Hal rolls his eyes again, but lets Dave place the fruit on his tongue and bites it off the stem before moving toward his straw. He doesn’t quite make eye contact, the faintest hint of a blush still lingering on his pale cheeks, and Dave just leans back in the booth and laces his fingers behind his head, lithe, lazy, watching. Hal licks a stray bit of cream from his lip before he even notices Dave’s eyes trained on him, seems almost startled by his stare in a way he hasn’t been since those first days of Philanthropy, when everything was still new and unsure and a little bit scary. But after a beat, he smiles and pushes the glass in Dave’s direction. “Want some?”

Their noses bump when they lean in and they laugh, fumble a little until they find a comfortable angle. Hal lays his hand, palm up, on the scratched up faux-wood table, and David covers it with his own.

Nothing is the way it was before. It never will be again.

David is alright with that.

They pay in cash and leave a sizable tip on the table when they're done. Dave is already shrugging his worn-out leather jacket on over his hoodie before the door shuts behind them. “Your turn.” He tosses Hal the keys to the Chevrolet parked out front and lights up a cigarette as they cross the lot.

“Yeah, yeah.” Hal grumbles, wrestles the door of the sedan open, and the wide, open plains and distant rising sun swallow them both whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little calm before the storm omfg hope y'all enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

The little motel room only has one small, dirty window next to the door, covered with a curtain so threadbare that it hardly does anything to block out the ambient light that comes with two a.m. on the outskirts of Sacramento. Hal watches David’s silhouette through the gauzy curtain, sees him lean against the railing outside. He’s been out there close to an hour now; Hal’s been watching him off and on between checking over satellite data in some combination of fascination and worry for just as long, watching the shadow on the curtain shift restlessly in the late-fall air and light cigarette after cigarette. He’s been tense since they got into Sacramento in the wee hours of the morning, on edge in a way Hal isn’t quite used to. Hal can understand why, he supposes: it can’t be easy, knowing you’ll have to use the body of the clone brother you killed to fake your own death.

There’s tension in every line of Dave’s body when he finally cracks the door open again, bringing with him the smell of smoke and dirty air. Hal is quick to turn to his laptop, hopes he can wipe all the worry off his face before Dave notices. He glances over the map on his screen for what must be the fiftieth time, but it does little to distract him from the way the room is starting to feel far too small in the wake of David’s obvious agitation.

 “You know,” Hal’s mouth gets ahead of him, desperate to cut the silence, “we don’t have to do this.”

Dave snaps to attention, looking up from where he was laying his jacket across the back of the chair. “Do what?”

“With Liquid’s body, I mean, if you’re not—"

“It’s fine,” Dave half-growls through his teeth and throws himself onto the bed next to Hal, peering over at his laptop. “That the layout of the place I’m going to tomorrow?”

The way he changes the subject tells Hal that he is not, at all, fine. “Did you want to talk about it?” Hal turns his laptop away so Dave can't use it to distract himself, and tries to hold his gaze instead. He _cares_ about Dave. He wants to help, even if he’s not sure how. He wants this to be alright. It’s a scary thought.

David is thoughtful. It’s not a new development – Hal has learned in the last two years that he’s an introspective man, more thoughtful and intelligent than he lets on. It was surprising at first; he expected him to be like every other soldier he’d met, all brawn and no brain, but Dave’s nothing like that. He’s nothing like _anyone_ Hal has met before. Hal doesn't push him, just watches quietly until he finally speaks, a low rumble. “Just… wish I got rid of the body back then.” The hand laying on his thigh twitches, curls around nothing until it's a tight fist. Hal knows he must want another cigarette, what with the way he’s been chain-smoking the last few days.

“Well, it worked out well for us in the end, huh?” Hal jokes to lighten the mood, but it doesn't even pull a wry smile from his partner, just a quiet grunt. He worries for a beat that he’s made things worse, curling in on himself reflexively, but Dave seems to recognize his discomfort and shifts closer.

“Yeah. We can use it, just—“ This is not the first time Hal has seen Dave angry, but there’s something more raw about this now. Dave usually keeps his temper under wraps, careful, controlled, turns it all inward so abruptly that it's almost jarring. Now, it’s seeping out through the cracks; the trembling of his fingers, the lip caught between his teeth, the low hiss of his breath. It’s familiar and new all at once, a little scary, a little exhilarating to know Dave is letting him see something that seems so… intimate. Carefully, he rests his hand on Dave’s arm in some semblance of comfort. Dave relaxes just a fraction under his touch.

“Sorry.” Hal is at a loss. He understands the anger, the way it boils just beneath the surface, but what do you say to someone who’s about to use their twin brother’s dead body to fake their own death? “I… it can't be easy, I know.”

Dave shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he mutters, his other hand coming to cover Hal’s on his arm, warm and strong against his own. He’s still on edge; Hal can feel his muscles coiled tight under his hand, the natural fight-or-flight response of a soldier so written into his instincts that Hal can feel it beneath his skin. Dave cracks a crooked, wry smile that makes the little ball of nerves in Hal’s stomach settle somewhat. “Guess it’s pretty funny, huh?”

Hal tilts his head. “What is?”

“We’re stealing my clone brother’s body from some secret facility in God-knows-where so we can convince the world I’m dead.” Dave snorts. “Sounds like something out of some weird sci-fi movie.” Hal can see the cracks in the wall widening and he leans in closer, ready to drink up any rare bit of information Dave will give. In these last two years, he never thought to ask about Liquid; like most things, he figured David would mention it if he wanted to talk.

Now, his mouth goes dry. “I’m… I’m here if you want to talk about it.” He doesn’t claim to understand how Dave feels about killing his clone brother, but he wants to _try._

To be fair, it doesn’t seem like Dave understands how he feels either. He keeps his hand on top of Hal’s, and Hal wonders briefly if Dave’s trying to keep himself calm or if he’s doing it for Hal’s sake. There’s a long silence before he finally speaks. “I have no fucking idea how I’m supposed to feel.” It's the most honesty Hal can remember hearing from his partner when it comes to his own feelings; he's so used to both of them maintaining these huge, hulking walls of hurt and shame, monuments to their real or imagined mistakes standing between them. When David slowly, carefully begins clawing at the cracks in his own, Hal listens.

Dave breathes deep. “I never knew him,” he says, quietly, after a moment.

“He, ah, wasn’t all that great if you ask me.” Hal’s joke gets a laugh this time, at least.

“Heh, he kinda seemed like an ass.” Dave shifts, runs a hand back through his hair. “Did you know him well?”

Hal pauses, tries to collect his disordered thoughts. “Uh, not really,” he manages to stammer. “I only saw him when he’d come in to check on our progress on REX. He usually had someone with him, like Mantis or… Wolf.” A sharp intake of breath, his laptop abandoned on the bed so he can fidget with the zipper on his hoodie. “He never told us when he was coming, and usually when he showed up all he did was stomp around and look intimidating and yell at us.” Hal wonders briefly how David opening up turned into him blabbering again, but Dave looks interested, head tilted, eyes clear. When Dave doesn't move to interject, Hal continues, a little quieter than before. “I was the project lead, so I got the worst of it, most of the time. It wasn't ever anything really important, I think he just… wanted a reason to yell at someone.”

Dave’s expression is unreadable, guarded, but Hal can still see the small signs of stress he’s come to recognize in him, however slight his physical expressions may be. He almost wants to offer him a cigarette. “God,” he mutters, finally, “I’m just gonna get pissed off if I keep thinking about it.” And then, quieter: “Just tired of killing… ah, whatever. S’not important.”

It's odd, the way Hal realizes he’s learned to hear the things Dave doesn't as clearly as he hears the things he does, to find the meaning in the silence, the clipped tone, the dismissive wave. He understands; he knows Liquid isn't the first of his family he’s killed. Hal imagines he knows a little of what that's like. “Sorry.” He gives Dave’s arm a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t be.” Dave covers Hal’s hand again with his own. “So, what about this place I’m infiltrating tomorrow?”

“Ah! Right, here, look.” Hal retrieves the laptop from the bed, finally concedes to Dave’s attempt to change the subject. "I figured out the best way to get in,” he says, gestures vaguely to the course he’s outlined on the map on the screen in red. Dave is still sitting close enough that Hal can feel the heat radiating from him like a furnace. He tries to ignore the way the closeness sets his nerves on fire.

“What is this place anyway?” The tension in the room melts slowly, David relaxing bit by bit. He leans over Hal to grab the bag of Doritos from the bedside table and wedges it in between them. The pieces of their broken little partnership-or-maybe-more click back into place.

Hal steals a chip from the bag. “Okay, well,” he glances at Dave from the corner of his eye and sees him leaning forward, attentive, “you know how people say Walt Disney had his body frozen after he died?”

“Uh… right?”

“Well, it turns out some people _do_ get frozen after they die. I don't know _why,_ really – probably just in case someone can revive them if there's ever some, like, crazy technological advancement that allows—“

“Hal.” Firm, but not quite annoyed. “Get to the point.”

A sharp inhale. “Right.” Hal pushes up his glasses. “Anyway, this company has these cold storage facilities all over the country.”

Dave leans in closer, obviously interested as he squints at Hal’s laptop. “And Liquid is being held in one?”

 They’re pressed together from shoulder to hip now, the bag of chips forgotten somewhere in front of them. Dave is warm next to him, a buffer against the late-fall chill and the weak heater, and Hal doesn’t really think about it when he leans into him. “Exactly,” Hal says, “we just don’t know which one.”

“So that's where I come in, right?” Dave is more light-hearted now, and the room no longer seems too small, too tight. He leans back against the headboard and Hal follows him, makes this contented little noise when Dave slings an arm lazily around his shoulders. If it's closer than they should be, well, what else is new? It's just one more thing that makes no sense, one more question added to the list of things they don't want to ask.

Hal decides he doesn't mind the unanswered questions when Dave rests his cheek on top of his head. He smells like cigarettes and sandalwood and the strangest home Hal has ever known.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re all clear.” Otacon’s voice fizzes over the codec. Snake rolls up on his heels and poises his hand on the doorknob. The office outside is as empty as it was before he shut himself inside the storage closet, dark and quiet but for the glowing neon exit sign above the stairwell and the ambient light of the city through the window-lined wall. The codec keeps buzzing in Snake’s ear, Otacon’s anxiety converted to radio static, a ghost hovering in the airwaves.

Snake pauses in the doorway. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Oh, uh,” Otacon’s voice is pulled taut, stretched thin, “no.”

They both hesitate again, dead air settling between them before Snake inhales. “Alright. Snake out.”

The call ends with a click and he’s left to the silence of the empty office building. He’s never been here before, but the layout Otacon showed him was simple enough; he works mostly on instinct, sticks to the shadows as he picks his way through the deserted building. Otacon, he knows, is crammed into their sedan parked a block and a half away with his laptop, monitoring both Snake’s vitals and the security footage at once. It’s comforting, in a way, knowing he’s being watched so closely.

His codec beeps. Otacon doesn't give him time to answer properly, all hyped up on the adrenaline and anxiety. “The server room is through the next door, Snake. I’m looping the security footage, so as long as you get in and out before anyone notices you should be fine. Still, be careful, Snake.” He’s talking almost too quickly, tone clipped and anxious in a way that’s all too familiar. Snake recognizes his little tics, now, the way he speaks too quickly when he’s nervous, the way he fidgets with anything he can get his hands on (more so than he usually does, at least), the way he stumbles over himself.

“Otacon.” The door creaks open and Snake is met with a room of computers, a few tall server stacks in the far corner. It’s eerily similar to Otacon’s office back on Shadow Moses. “Relax. I’m fine. This is an office building, not the tanker.” He drops himself in a chair in front of one of the computers silently. Otacon is on edge. Snake understands - it's barely been more than a week since the tanker and they've been dancing around the subject since, aside from a few muttered comments. He knows Otacon is worried, knows that they should probably talk about it again now that they’ve put a week and thousands of miles between them and the Hudson, but for now he needs him clear-headed, or they’ll be putting the mission at risk.

“Right. Uh. Sorry.” Otacon clears his throat, and the codec sits silent for a beat. He’s back in mission mode in an instant, understands what Snake needs of him without having to be told. “Okay, you still have that flash drive I gave you, right?”

Snake produces the tiny thumb drive from his pocket. “Affirmative.”

“Alright, plug it in to the computer and let it work its magic.” Otacon sounds smug, obviously proud of his work. Snake sits back in his chair, watches the virus Otacon coded start cracking the password. It would be fascinating if Snake knew shit about computers, he figures, but it's mostly just boring watching the program type meaningless strings of letters and numbers into the password field. He tries to find something more interesting to focus on instead; the desk is cluttered with papers, mostly, a pen weighing down a stack of reports he can’t really decipher, but the photo frame behind the clutter piques his interest. It’s nothing special, just a photo of an average family - happy-looking parents and a little girl who couldn’t be older than nine with her arms wrapped around the neck of a drooling dog. Nothing remarkable, really; just a slice of day-to-day life. He picks it up anyway. It’s always a little weird, seeing these normal people with their normal lives, living as if the world has no chance of crumbling around them.

The computer beeps. Snake abandons the picture frame. “Huh. That was fast.” He perks up a little when the password is accepted and the OS springs to life.

“The company uses an algorithm for all their passwords,” Otacon explains over the codec. “I’m sure they think it's secure, but it's pretty easy to crack if you know what you're doing.”

“Too bad they don’t have a super nerd like you to handle their cyber security.”

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”

“It is one. Probably.”

“Asshole.” Otacon snaps, but his anger has no teeth; they're both laughing in an instant, until the computer emits a soft beep and Snake snaps to attention.

“Is it done?” He squints at the screen.

He can almost hear the laughter in Otacon’s voice. “I don't know, is it?”

Snake scowls and snatches the flash drive from the USB port. Looks done enough to him. “I was trained for survival, Otacon, not Windows 98.”

Snake hears Otacon scoff at him again as he slinks his way out of the room. “Snake, no one has used Windows 98 since 2001.”

By his estimate, Snake has five minutes to get to the stairwell before the guard makes his next round on the floor. “Well, that's why I have you.” He pokes his head out around a corner but the long corridor is as dark and empty as he left it. “Need someone around here who knows this shit. Wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without you.” It’s more sincere than he means to be, but it's true; he would still be in that cabin in Alaska if Otacon never showed up at his door, all messy hair and dark circles under his eyes and hoodie far too light for Alaska in March and far too big for his skinny frame. It feels like lifetimes ago now, like it happened to someone else and not to him. Then again, maybe it did; maybe he isn’t the same man he was then at all.

Otacon laughs on the other end, that kind of almost-nervous laughter Snake has come to recognize, awkward and a little nasally. “I wouldn’t have gotten very far without you, either.”

“Guess not, huh?”

Snake reaches the stairwell just in time to hear the elevator ding behind him, closes the door silently and takes the stairs two at a time. By the time he reaches the first floor and cracks open the side door into the alley, their beat-up sedan is idling outside. He slides into the passenger seat wordlessly, gives Otacon a curt nod before he eases out of the alleyway and onto the mostly-quiet street. They drive in silence until they’re well out of the hot zone, Snake stripping off his gloves and bandana and shoving them in the glovebox, pulling at the too-tight collar of his sneaking suit. Finally, Otacon turns to him. “That went well, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Snake rolls the window down a fraction and fishes his pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “It was easy enough.” Hal makes a face when he slides the cigarette between his teeth and clicks his lighter a few times before it finally ignites, wrinkles his nose as he exhales. Snake retrieves the flash drive, holding it up for Hal to see. “Got the goods.”

Hal exhales, the steel in his spine melting. “Just glad you’re safe.” He mutters, almost too quiet for David to hear, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as they turn down street after street, winding like a serpent through the city, familiar in its unfamiliarity.

They pull into an almost-empty parking lot a few miles from the office building after a little deliberation and switch places, Dave sliding into the driver’s seat so Hal can pour over the contents of the flash drive in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his crossed legs. He’s all coiled energy turned inwards, electric and jumpy, but Dave doesn’t quite know what else to say to him about it, so he says nothing at all, just sits and waits, blowing thin curls of grey smoke out the barely-opened window.

They sit in this heavy half-silence, headlights turned off, engine idling, for a few leaden minutes before Hal finds a match. He perks up a bit and Dave turns toward him, cigarette still clamped too tight in his fingers. “So? We find him?”

Hal just nods, finally looking up from his screen, face bathed in cold light. “Looks like he’s in their facility in Tacoma.

“Washington?”

“Yeah, looks like.”

Dave pauses for a second, almost opening his mouth to speak, but instead he turns around again, stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray, and puts the car in drive.


	5. Chapter 5

They see most of the country streaking by their windows on long stretches of highway. The Pacific Northwest is no different, passing by in strokes of green and brown and autumn reds through a curtain of rain. The first time they drove through this part of the country, Philanthropy was still more of a dream than anything, still just this nameless, formless idea between them. Back then, Hal still tried to fill the long silences with nervous rambling and Dave still drove with his grip white-knuckled on the wheel; back then, they barely knew what they were up against, let alone each other.

Two years and thousands of miles change things.

Hal is sitting in the passenger seat, now, his feet on the dashboard and a map spread across his lap, watching the rain outside the window and eating fries from the grease-stained fast food bag sitting on the floorboard. Dave drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping his thigh to the beat of whatever Aerosmith song is on the radio. The heater is on, the car warm and dry compared to the drizzly November day rolling past their windows.

It’s a far cry from those awkward early days, but what isn’t, now?

It’s peaceful, even with the radio fading in and out and the rain pounding the window with increasing intensity and the slight tension in David’s shoulders. Regardless, Hal gets antsy. “Hey, ah,” he starts before he even decides what he’s saying, mouth getting ahead of his mind, “sorry if I was too… protective yesterday.”

Dave stops humming along to _Walk This Way_ long enough to look at him. “It’s fine, Hal, don't worry about it.”

“No, really—“ Hal shifts in his seat to face him as much as he can, pulls his feet down off the dash. “I know you can take care of yourself, I just… got worried, I guess.”

“I’d rather have you watching my back than not,” Dave says. He flashes Hal a smile and it melts his heart a little more than he would care to admit, a tiny spark of warmth on the cold November day. “Guess you have a pretty good reason to be worried after last time, huh?”

Right. Last time. The tanker. Hal hadn’t intended to bring it up, really; he would have been content to go on like it didn't happen until he managed to force it out of his mind. He bites his lip, considers. They haven't _really_ talked about it since the night it happened. Things have been so fast paced that they've been able to find an excuse to brush past it every time. Hal can’t run from it now, not when he's trapped in the passenger seat and Dave is looking at him, all curiosity and quiet concern. He breathes deep and says the first thing he can think to say. “That was my fault.”

“It wasn’t.” Dave gives him that stern look, the one Hal used to find frightening but now only finds strangely comforting. The radio turns to static again, a little too far from civilization to get a signal, and Dave turns it off, leaving them to the rain and low hum of the engine. Hal can feel Dave analyzing his every word, turning them over like a puzzle in his head, pieces to be taken apart and put together again. “You saved my life, Hal.” It’s almost funny; David’s the one who nearly died, but here he is brandishing that gentle concern, brows drawn and mouth downturned.

“It was a stupid mistake.” Hal shifts, tries to escape the intensity of Dave’s gaze but there's nowhere else to go in their little sedan. His chest tightens, panic threatening at the edges of his senses, this heavy, oppressive thing looming over him. David never should have been on that boat; Hal may have been the one who saved him but what does that matter when he put him there in the first place?

David’s calm is a bulwark against the storm mounting in Hal’s head. “You made the decision you thought was right.”

“You could have died.” A terrifying truth, a wound still a little too raw.

Dave shrugs. “That’s always a risk in our line of work.” He gives Hal a look then, tentative, a little unsure, like he’s walking on eggshells. “We’re safe, aren’t we?” He’s choosing his words carefully. “It’s behind us now.” Except it really isn’t, not when they’re still trying to pick up the pieces, retrieving Liquid’s body to cover their tracks. Dave looks back at the road, grip a little tighter on the wheel than before. “Beating yourself up about it isn’t going to help anyone.” He laughs a little, mirthless. “Never worked for me, anyway.”

Hal wants to tell him that the part he doesn’t understand is that it’s so much _more_ than the tanker; that the tanker is just another mistake in his colorful history of fuck ups and it almost went the same way the rest did and _that’s_ the problem. That he can’t get the image of David floating in the water out of his mind, sees it every time he closes his eyes the same way he saw his father for years, a waking nightmare he can’t escape. That he’s lost people to his carelessness before and he’s terrified of doing it again.

He doesn’t.

“I know,” he sighs, collects his thoughts, and carefully shoves the panicky, half-remembered images of a day long since passed and the sinking feeling threatening to pull him under back into their little box to be ignored until he can’t run from them again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Dave says quickly, still watching the rain hit the asphalt. “I just--“ He sighs, scowls at the road for a moment before finally holding Hal’s gaze, “Just don’t want you to feel bad about it.”

Well, at least they’re both emotionally stunted idiots.

Hal cracks a watery smile. “I’ll do my best,” he says and they both laugh a little, because they know it’s the best they can ask for. It’s a start. Lightning splits the soft grey of the sky like a fault line, followed by the low rumble of thunder, and Hal sighs, relaxes back into his seat.

“Hey, pass me a fry.”

Hal can never understand how David manages to sense his unease so quickly, to change the subject and diffuse the situation in an instant. He gives Hal an expectant look and Hal finally cracks a smile in return, a real one and not a half-baked attempt at feeling human, and leans down to retrieve a french fry from the bag. “Here,” he holds it out, a makeshift (and slightly floppy) peace offering. Dave leans toward him and Hal’s brows knit for a second before he realizes, feels a bit silly when he feeds him the french fry but they both laugh nonetheless.

That lopsided smile will never fail to make Hal’s heart flutter _just_ a bit. “Thanks,” Dave says, still chewing as he turns his attention back to the rain-slicked road. The windshield wipers beat out a steady rhythm, and Hal feels his pulse calm. He feels better despite himself; even if it _was_ his fault, Dave doesn’t seem to blame him. He breathes deep. Dave is right; it’s in the past, and they’re both here now. Everything is okay.

Hal leans against the window and watches autumn roll by outside, the deep, endless green of the pine forest and the warmth of early-November leaves. There’s still some magic in it to a boy raised in Silicon Valley who only saw autumn in pictures, still some mystery in the way the leaves change and fall even when it's been ten years since he left home. He presses his face to the cool glass and breathes deep as if he could fill his lungs with the quiet peace of the passing forest and exhale the uncertainty twisting his stomach.

The radio signal doesn’t come back, but Hal eventually pops a CD into the CD player to break the quiet and props his feet back up on the dash. Dave just barely cracks the window open before he lights a cigarette, rain flecking the interior of the car and normally Hal would complain about the smoke _and_ the open window, but the air outside is so cool and refreshing that Hal doesn't really mind.  The thunderstorm wraps them in a blanket of fog, turns everything hazy and soft and by the time they merge back onto the highway the sun is hanging low and heavy behind the clouds, painting the horizon in fiery shades of red and orange.

“How far until Tacoma?” Dave rolls the window back up and snuffs out the last burning cinders of his cigarette in the ashtray.

Hal unfolds the map and squints at it for a moment. “Uh.” He pushes his glasses up, finally manages to smooth the unruly paper over his thighs. “Six hours at least,” he guesses, watches Dave yawn. Neither of them have slept much, lately. “Maybe we should turn in early?”

Hal chooses one of the tiny dots on the map at random to spend the night in, a little town along the highway they’ll barely remember the name of in the morning just like the others that dot the landscape of the country. The sun sets quickly, until only the faintest hints of yellow-orange cling to the edges of the storm clouds by the time they find a cheap motel. Hal doesn’t have to ask before he gets them a room with one bed and a shitty CRT television, and the two of them have to race across the parking lot to avoid the rain that’s started coming down in sheets but they’re still half-soaked by the time Dave fits the key into the lock and flings the door open. They shake the water from their hair and clothes and huddle up next to the radiator, Hal’s laptop balanced precariously on his knees, the two of them sitting just a _little_ too close together until Hal finally stops shivering and Dave disappears into the bathroom to brave the horrors of the cheap motel room shower.

They spend the rest of the night streaming old _Star Trek_ episodes on the spotty wifi and huddling together under scratchy hotel blankets to ward off the cold, scooting closer and closer until the space between them disappears into nothing. It's comfortable, at least, even when nothing else is.


End file.
